As the midday sun ceded the sky to the showers of late afternoon, Mike and the rest of the crew finished up on the penultimate tree. It was not as big as the others they had cut down, but it was thick and stubborn, and uncharacteristically dry, and guarded by several offshoots that resembled overgrown, leafy plants. To Mike, it resembled a family and their removal affected him in a way that he had previously warned himself about: feeling too deeply for all that was perceived to be slipping through the cracks. And whether it was a shiny toy pleading for applause at the bottom of a storm drain or a sulking man on a park bench as the schedule would not allow the bus to stop, Mike took on the responsibility of a witness, who felt the pain, but locked up when it was time to act. Lately, he thought about this incessantly, enslaved by an emotional tic, especially when the observations were still fresh and new, and then when the clarity of the images began to wane, contemplation still refused to recede, the blurry residue manifesting itself in feelings that never became stale or wandered off. It was as if experience was being rolled like a giant ball of dough, all of the ingredients mashed together until they became a collective, but without the boundaries of a community. Anyone who had a young family of their own, would be surprised at the similarities they shared with Mike, particularly when it came to fighting off exhaustion from expectation and carrying the weight of dependents all alone. Yet, Mike could never really relate to anyone, when it came to the churning he felt inside. It was home for him, but even the above mentioned reference to the sole provider was not refined enough to roll out. So he chopped and he cut and wore the scars of the trees across his arms and his face. Sweat was designed to keep the body cool, so why did it sting his eyes with intense heat whenever he tried to focus on all that he was supposed to rout? Or was that the spatter of warring blood, blocking the wooden splinters that represented a final surrender? Then it rained and Mike along with the rest of the crew were ordered to power off. It should have been a relief, much could happen overnight, maybe a councilman or a developer would have a dream so vivid that they could renege on their promise to help the city grow. But this was Florida and the showers would be over quick. Mike stared at the last tree that remained. It was in an area that had been previously hidden and inaccessible. Now it was free to fulfill its purpose-or waiting-to mercifully pass away. The sun was peaking through, which reflected brightly on Mike’s wet blade. The freshly, cleaned rivets would make the job easier. Mike wrestled with everything else in between. Ultimately, he had grown accustomed to an arbitrary world encompassed by swirling debris. A few more storms and the bus would be compelled to slow for all who were downtrodden and the grate would be flooded, lifting the toy safely above the drain. Mike would remain behind, in case the offshoot was capable of producing grapes.